


Own True Way

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Consensual Sex, Ex Sex, Gay Robots, Light BDSM, Loving Evil Partnership, M/M, Mild Blood, References to Addiction, Robot Feels, Robot Sex, Wake-Up Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarn is caught between the roles of servant and master, between the past and the future.  Maybe the thing he needs most is the kind of partner with a reputation for breaking all the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Own True Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redredribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/gifts).



> This story is part of the series "On My Dark and Lonely Side" and is now numbered according to its place in the timeline. It was posted early since I wanted to do a short but significant installment as a Yule gift for a friend who helps me keep this ship well fueled.
> 
> Title taken from the Great Big Sea song of the same name. Look up the lyrics ;)

_Own True Way_

Tarn’s quarters on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ were made up of four rooms: An office (framed first edition of _Towards Peace_ prominently mounted behind his desk), a wash rack (large enough to accommodate a tank, since he often changed shape for hours under the cleansing spray), a parlor (oversized couch, fine furniture and the best sound system shanix could buy) and a sleeping chamber that held an ultra-luxurious double-wide berth with the softest chamois sleeping covers on the market. Tarn was a big mech, but the berth had easily twice as much space as he could use. Its size was deliberate. When he’d installed it, Tarn had fully expected to share it.

Not often. He understood that. Leaders didn’t have a lot of time to linger in the berths of their lovers, not even when those lovers were the heads of their fearsome Justice Division. Still, as the centuries became millennia, Tarn found himself wishing that once—even if it were only a single time— _just once_ , maybe Megatron might stay the night. 

But always Megatron’s time in these quarters passed the same way. Business first. Pleasure, if Tarn was lucky. Then Megatron left, and Tarn spent his sleeping cycle by himself in a berth far too large for one mech alone, inhaling Megatron’s scent on the chamois and dreaming. 

Was it so wrong of Tarn to wish that Megatron might stay? Even if only _once_. One night so Tarn might know how it felt to be held and cherished through the long dark hours and illuminate his optics in the morning to the sight of his lover’s smile. From then on he could content himself with memories. If he could only…just _once…_

Of late, imagination was proving a thin and malnourishing substitute.

So when Tarn rolled over and found his frame coming to an unexpected halt against a warm, broad chest, his sensors sent a red-flagged ping to his brain. Tonight, Tarn was _not_ sleeping alone.

Tarn’s brain ran a quick cross-reference and processed a report: the presence of only a small quantity of _extremely_ fine vintage innermost energon and quintuple-filtered distilled engex in his systems, his valve pleasantly sore from the evening’s usage, and his entire frame finally, _blessedly_ warm, in a way he could never manage on Messatine, thanks to the large body running hot against his. His memories, liberally sewn with fantasies, filled in the blanks.

Tarn’s greatest wish had finally come true. His Lord had spent the night.

So when one tiny corner of his brain responded with a query—had Megatron ever run _this_ hot? And why didn’t he smell of cordite, the way he always had before? Why did he smell like wild musk and cheap energon lager tonight? –Tarn promptly, and sternly, told it to shut up. He was going to need his processor’s entire capacity dedicated to remembering this night, so he could savour it later. 

Tarn nestled closer—carefully; he didn’t want to wake Megatron up. He lay next to his Lord, still half-asleep, his optics turned off. He didn’t want to illuminate them. Their glow might rouse Megatron and besides, limited processor capacity… First, Tarn should immerse himself in the _feel_ of his Master and lover. And oh, the exquisite warmth. Glorious, limitless, effortless warmth. Strength, thrumming through his frame with every stroke of his powerful engine. And care, in the hand that rested loosely over Tarn’s waist.

Tarn pressed a reverent kiss to Megatron’s chest and found himself kissing the inside of his mask instead. He cursed himself for being so foolish as to leave it on in the berth. Megatron’s presence was the only time when he could bear to take it _off_. Megatron, after all, knew who he had been before the mask and the double barrelled fusion cannon. Megatron had still found him worthy to serve. 

And there was nothing he could hide from Megatron.

Thinking of that fact—of Tarn’s complete and completely willing subjugation to the Decepticon Cause, and to his Lord, Megatron, who was the Cause incarnate in steel—Tarn’s valve pulsed with desperate need. Tarn tried to ignore the sensation. He’d already used that equipment once tonight, in a way that had finally satisfied Megatron well enough to make him wish to linger. Tarn didn’t want to be needy. To impose. To _cling_. Megatron had spoken to him about _clinging_.

But his valve continued to tingle, until Tarn was forced to shift his body in an effort to alleviate the sensation. He also tried to think about something, _anything_ , other than the pleasures Megatron’s frame had brought him. Tarn recalled long, grueling missions in the field, under hostile fire, plying his trade even while his systems churned with distaste, listening to mechanisms scream for mercy…knowing he did it all, would do it all again, _forever_ , for Megatron…until the promised day when everlasting peace and unrelenting tyranny had finally come to pass.

No good. Thoughts of Megatron pinning him down, piercing his valve with a silver spike, _smiling in approval….kissing him…_ kept pushing their way to the forefront of his mind, commanding his attention. Tarn’s fans clicked on, refusing to be denied. Spreading his thighs just made the tingling worse, and the more Tarn thought about how he’d suffered and sacrificed for the Cause, the more aroused he became.

Tarn folded his upper leg over Megatron’s, hoping the feel of his Lord’s body would help. It did…it felt blessedly good, particularly when Tarn moved his hips and…

_No._

_Don’t wake Megatron._

His valve hungered with an all-consuming need. It _throbbed_ , in a way that had nothing to do with the ache of usage. It took everything Tarn had not to snap it open and rub his anterior node against Megatron’s firm and angular body. Staying still was exquisite agony. How could Megatron not notice how hot he was running, how he couldn’t stay still, how his valve was leaking? Was he going to get sternly lectured for being _greedy_ again? Was he ruining his only chance of ever having another night with Megatron?

But his valve knew no mercy. It wanted Megatron, at any cost. It wanted to be used _again_ , even if it hurt from overuse. Tarn knew enough about his own tastes that he suspected it would be even better this time if it _was_ a little painful. To sacrifice for his Lord was the greatest pleasure of all.

The frame beside him stirred. Tarn’s throat tightened with fear even as his fuel pump accelerated with anticipation.

A nose nudged against Tarn’s neck. Tarn felt the rush of inhalation, then a slow, lazy exhale. “Mmmm. _Hello_.”

“I apologize, my Lord,” Tarn stammered. How could he be such a fool? Megatron in his berth at last, and he had to ruin it because his frame was revved up like a beast that needed to rut?

“Apologize? For what?” Megatron’s voice was rough and distorted by sleep. It sounded somewhat lighter. More musical. Strange intonations. Taloned hands stroked Tarn’s chest and Tarn forgot about the odd notes in Megatron’s voice. “I’m very _pleased_ to wake up to a hot frame next to me.”

Tarn felt his spark leap even as his valve swelled, ready to be taken. Megatron was pleased with him. Megatron wanted him all revved up and hot.

And for the next few minutes, those hands explored just how hot Tarn’s frame was. Relentless fingers traced transformation seams, pressed on panels, and mapped crevasses. Megatron took his time as he delved lower, lower, down Tarn’s body. Tarn arched his frame to urge Megatron’s hands in the direction he desperately wanted them to go. Tarn rolled onto his back and his lover’s caresses followed. Tarn could feel the weight of his Master’s frame hovering atop him, even while those clever fingers played around the seam of Tarn’s valve panel without ever stilling long enough to pop the catch. 

“Megatron,” Tarn whispered. “Megatron, _please_.”

Had he let his talent creep into his voice? He hoped not. He’d never coerce _Megatron_ with either pain or pleasure. “Have mercy and I will be silent,” Tarn hastily added, just in case. “I’ll be silent. I swear I will. Just…let me please you. _Take me._ ”

“Tarn.” Megatron’s voice seemed to come from far away, despite the hot air from his fans blasting down on Tarn’s chest, despite the weight of his frame on Tarn’s. “Tarn, look at me and say my name.”

“Megatron,” Tarn whimpered. He didn’t want to activate his optics. Didn’t want to come all the way awake. Better to float in the dreamy haze of pleasure while his fantasies came true. Better not to have to face…whatever was telling him that something was wrong. Precisely what it was, he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know, not now. Not while he was beneath his Lord, serving as he ought.

“ _Look at me_ ,” Megatron insisted, in a voice that was barely his own, and Tarn could deny his master’s order no longer. Obediently, Tarn lit his optics.

Megatron’s face was so close to his own, and he looked down at Tarn from optics that glowed a proud, fierce Decepticon red.

All four of them.

Tarn blinked. Squinted. He certainly didn’t feel as though he’d taken a blow to the head, but there were still four distinct optics looking down at him, two large and two slightly smaller, above, mounted on a beaked helm and…

_Smelt me down._

This wasn’t Megatron in his berth after all. It was _Deathsaurus_.

And the world as Tarn knew it broke apart, shattering into a thousand crystal shards. Tarn’s mind hastily shuffled them and stitched them back together into an almost-coherent whole.

Tarn was the Decepticon Emperor now.

Megatron had defected to the Autobots and was now number one on the List.

Deathsaurus was Tarn’s new executive officer, the Chief of Staff to Tarn as Emperor.

…Who, Tarn realized, he’d been fragging with alarming regularity. Which was probably why Deathsaurus was in his berth and kneeling overtop of him. Which was definitely why Deathsaurus thought it was appropriate to be playing with Tarn’s valve panel. Deathsaurus was even forward enough to have released his spike on his own initiative. It was pressing into the side of Tarn’s thigh with a firmness that made Tarn’s mouth water.

It was strange how easily Tarn kept forgetting about his new indulgence, even though this was far from the first time he’d let Deathsaurus stay the night. Maybe it was that Tarn _never_ fragged his own team. Even if Deathsaurus didn’t count as his _team_ , exactly, Tarn still didn’t dally with lovers very often. 

Tarn could count on his fingers the number of other liasions he’d had. He’d never been all that attractive before the mask, and attractive for all the wrong reasons afterwards. He’d had little patience with which to indulge mechanisms who were acting out their own fantasies, and none whatsoever for the condemned who hoped to buy their lives with their favours. 

And, of course, up until very recently his spark had belonged to Megatron, and even now he couldn’t say with certainty that it didn’t, still. For a moment Tarn felt more guilty about his valve aching for a mech that wasn’t Megatron than he did about having Megatron on his mind while in the berth with someone else.

Tarn looked up and managed to speak his lover’s name in the tone best reserved for apologies. “Deathsaurus.”

Four eyes relaxed into a calm, steady gaze. “That’s better,” Deathsaurus said as he nuzzled Tarn’s throat.

And Tarn’s valve, which up until then had at least had the good graces to leave his nervous system alone while he recovered from the embarrassment of calling the wrong name in the berth, suddenly sent a hard, insistent ping right up his spinal strut to his brain. Tarn’s mouth opened in a gasp.

His body ached, more than ready to accept Deathsaurus, insisting that the past was history and in the present, in this moment right now, he was dripping with lubricants, soiling his chamois covers and soaking his berth, and it would feel ever so good to be fragged….by Megatron, by Deathsaurus, it didn’t matter. Tarn wondered if he was desperate enough to take any spike offered and feared to think of the answer. Surely he would deny anyone else. _Almost certainly._

_Surely he would have the strength to deny Megatron, knowing what he knew now._

But not Deathsaurus. No, if he couldn’t have Megatron any longer he damned well would have his executive officer. 

Tarn splayed his legs and beckoned with his hand, signalling his willingness to accept Deathsaurus’s spike. Accept? He’d _beg_ for it if he had to. What he felt right now wasn’t the sweet torment of denial or even the dull ache of neglected arousal. This sensation felt like agony. His valve pulsed out wave after wave of uncontrollable moisture. His fans stuttered. His chest ached. His spark itself seemed to flicker.

He _needed_.

More than transformation, more than nuke…He _needed_ , and he could not bear to hurt this way much longer.

“Deathsaurus. Proceed.”

“In good time…” Deathsaurus seemed far more interested in exploring the base of Tarn’s throat with his tongue and scraping his talons over the biolights on Tarn’s chest.

No. _Not_ in good time. Tarn needed this burden taken from him _now_. 

Tarn summoned up his power, feeling the thrum like shards of glass in his vocal cords, parting his lips, preparing to whisper an enticement that was just as much a threat…

…and then he choked.

His need didn’t, and never would, extend to forcing his partners to service him against their will. Just as he wouldn’t demand Kaon give him his t-cog after Tarn burned out his own, he wouldn’t threaten Deathsaurus with pain to force him into acts of interface. Tarn had _ethics_ , no matter what other people might think of him. Tarn’s entire job was about the _enforcement_ of ethics. 

Tarn tried not to think about what it meant that previously, his entire concept of _right_ and _wrong_ was based on the imposition of Megatron’s will. Did that mean, now that he was Emperor, that _right_ was whatever he chose to do? It didn’t. It _couldn’t_. 

But another wave of pain tore through him and threatened to blot away all thought. This wasn’t arousal, it was torture, and Tarn didn’t know how else to make it stop.

Tarn swallowed down the power in his voice and spoke again. “Deathsaurus, _please. I need it. Please!_ ”

“All right.” Deathsaurus chuckled, and Tarn felt his entire body weaken with relief. His valve was ready, _so_ ready. But then Deathsaurus leaned down and whispered in his audio. “But with _conditions_.”

Tarn tried to protest and could only moan desperately.

“One. You tell me _precisely_ what you want.”

“Frag me!” Tarn gasped. Was that specific enough? No reason to take chances. “Your spike. My valve. Now.”

“Two. You keep your optics on me.”

Tarn nodded frantically. Deathsaurus’s spike slid up the inside of Tarn’s thigh, and Tarn knew exactly where it was going.

His optics were inactive before he felt the spike’s head nudge the ring pierced through his anterior node.

 _Damn it!_ Tarn struggled to light his optics again, even though all he wanted to do was shut off his other senses and savour the feeling.

“Three. If you can’t keep your optics on, you _say my name_.”

Tarn didn’t like this blatant power play. “Is your ego so fragile,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “that you need it fed so badly?”

“No,” Deathsaurus growled. “I need to know that _you_ know who you’re in the berth with.”

Right. Because he’d said Megatron’s name out loud. Tarn supposed he deserved that.

“All right,” Tarn agreed, and his valve pinged its approval. “All right, Deathsaurus, but I need…I need you now…”

_Tell me precisely what you want._

“I need your spike, Deathsaurus,” Tarn urged.

“Ah.” Deathsaurus smiled. He had very prominent fangs. Savage, bestial—Tarn should be repulsed. Instead he felt a quiver of excitement down his spinal strut.

And Deathsaurus thrust his spike home.

Tarn’s valve lips parted with no resistance whatsoever. Tarn braced himself, knowing from previous experience that Deathsaurus’s spike was notably large. This would probably hurt. No matter how wet Tarn’s valve might be, this was the first time they hadn’t bothered with foreplay, and they’d used the equipment quite roughly just a few hours ago before falling into recharge. 

But Deathsaurus stopped halfway.

Tarn’s valve felt the stretch, but that was all. It felt good, both from the relief at finally having his cravings met and from the delicious presence of those short, thick spines that stimulated all his internal nodes. Unfortunately, at partial penetration, the top half of his valve was neglected. “Deathsaurus. More.”

Deathsaurus rolled his hips. Tarn mewed as his lower nodes were stimulated unmercifully and his upper nodes resumed their painful ache for attention. 

Deathsaurus was tormenting him. Tarn supposed he deserved it. 

“Are you,” Tarn gasped. A moan swallowed the rest of the sentence. Tarn gulped and tried again. “Are you angry?”

“Livid,” Deathsaurus purred as his tongue licked over the cables of Tarn’s throat. Right over Tarn’s voicebox, the seat of his terrible power.

Tarn’s valve stretched, then relaxed. Deathsaurus’s spike sank deeper, and Tarn mewled. Tarn panted as Deathsaurus held still for three agonizing seconds before he began a series of slow, gentle thrusts.

It felt delightful, and Tarn would ordinarily love nothing more than to savour each sensation, but right now he felt as though he were starving and being drip-fed energon when he needed, so badly, to have a deep and satisfying drink. His ability to differentiate pleasure and pain was utterly scrambled. And Deathsaurus’s actions made no sense. Tarn knew firsthand how difficult it was to be slow and precise when gripped by fury. Tarn expected an angry Deathsaurus to close a hand on his throat and frag him unmercifully, to the point of damage and beyond. Not this slow, tender lovemaking.

“Deathsaurus. Is this my punishment?”

Deathsaurus cocked an optic ridge. “Punishment?”

“Too slow…need deeper, faster, _more…”_

“Sssh. Your valve needs time to adjust. I don’t want to hurt you.” He smirked. “Don’t worry.” Deathsaurus pressed a kiss to Tarn’s mask. “I’ll get there.”

Tarn gasped. “But I thought you were angry.”

Deathsaurus blinked. “Not with _you_.”

Those words made no sense. Tarn wrapped his arms around Deathsaurus’s torso and held on tight, feeling the barely restrained power in the warlord’s shoulders, gasping as that savage spike tweaked a node two-thirds of the way into his valve. So close, and yet so very far. He wanted Deathsaurus jacked into his receiving port, and he wanted it _already done._

“Please, my Lord,” Tarn begged, hardly knowing what he was saying until the words had escaped his lips.

Deathsaurus growled low in his chest and eased forward.

Tarn’s valve parted willingly, embracing Deathsaurus’s spike, until the jack at the tip of Deathsaurus’s spike plugged itself firmly into the port buried in Tarn’s valve.

So good. It felt so good. Tarn abandoned himself utterly, allowing Deathsaurus to _take him_. When the data download began, Tarn did not object. Deathsaurus could fill Tarn up, body and mind, make him his, and use him as he would.

Tarn saw himself addressing the Warworld’s troops, and Deathsaurus standing at his shoulder, the dutiful second in command. He frowned…his body hovered on the edge of overload as his hips rose to meet Deathsaurus’s frame, chasing paradise with relentless hunger, but this image wasn’t erotic in the slightest.

Then the scene changed. They left the podium and entered a small, private room, where Deathsaurus made a gesture and Tarn dropped to his knees and…

_My Emperor…isn’t the ultimate in power the security to know that you can choose to serve if you wish? To serve someone who will truly appreciate you?_

Tarn gasped. He shouldn’t even be _thinking_ such a thing. He was the _Emperor_ now. He should not be imagining himself serving Deathsaurus, feeding him treats, polishing his plating…serving him in the berth. He shouldn’t be imagining feeling so happy when Deathsaurus stroked him, murmured words of encouragement, whispered that he’d dearly love to show Tarn off to _everyone_ ….

He shouldn’t be overloading so hard that he reset his systems, just at the _thought_ of it.

But he _was_.

As Tarn came back online, feeling Deathsaurus shuddering above him in the grip of his own overload, Tarn slowly understood that this time he hadn’t downloaded a memory or an emotion. That download had been a _fantasy_. A fantasy that Tarn dearly wished might be true. 

Could it be…? Could he keep his rank as Emperor of the Decepticons and still indulge in submissive play with Deathsaurus? Could he trust Deathsaurus not to interpret his tastes for weakness? Could he trust _himself_?

“I…” Tarn said hesitantly, as Deathsaurus carefully disengaged his spike from Tarn’s valve and settled beside him.

He’d shamed himself. _Humiliated_ himself. Yet the fantasy he’d downloaded suggested that Deathsaurus might not find such notions to be shameful at all. And for some inexplicable reason, Deathsaurus wasn’t bothered that he’d called out for Megatron.

“I would be angry if I were you,” Tarn admitted.

Deathsaurus’s optics glowed in the dark as he nestled closer. “Tarn,” Deathsaurus whispered. “Why would I take my rage out on you because someone else hurt us both?”

“But I…” Tarn’s face burned with shame under the mask. “I said his name.”

Deathsaurus’s calm response shook Tarn to his very spark. “You say his name every night.”

Tarn could only imagine what his optics looked like, but clearly they were enough for Deathsaurus to read his expression, even with the rest of his face obscured behind his mask. “You didn’t know,” Deathsaurus said slowly. “You didn’t know you call for him in your sleep.”

Tarn wanted to curl up and disappear. Taking Deathsaurus to his berth had been such a mistake. What kind of mechanism took a lover to bed and spent the night with another mech’s name on his lips, in his spark?

Tarn would be _infuriated_ if his lover pretended Tarn was someone else. He’d even felt moments of jealousy when _Megatron_ dimmed his optics during interface, even though Tarn knew damned well that Megatron had a number of partners at any one time, even though Tarn had known from the beginning that he would only be one of several. For _Megatron_ it was worth the truth that Tarn himself would never be fully comfortable with the arrangement. For _Megatron_ Tarn didn’t care how much it hurt him. To suffer in Megatron’s service was the highest of honours.

Deathsaurus, on the other hand, was _not_ the sort of mech to enjoy sacrifice for its own sake. Megatron had pushed Deathsaurus too far and the warlord had simply _left_. Spread his wings and soared beyond the support of the Decepticon empire – no money, no supplies, no fuel, nothing but what he and his men could acquire on their own skills. Turned his back on everything he knew and burned his bridges behind him, heading out into an unknown future, himself alone responsible for all the mechs who went with him. Tarn could not imagine what kind of courage—or insanity—it took to make that leap of faith. Deathsaurus had jumped and never looked back whereas Tarn had been shoved and forced to either fall or fly.

And even after Megatron had abandoned him, Tarn still longed for him. It made no sense that Tarn should still love a traitor. And he didn’t know how to make it _stop_.

“Why should I be angry with you?” Deathsaurus said again. 

Tarn shivered. He didn’t deserve this kind of second chance. 

“Look at you,” Deathsaurus purred, running his fingertips over Tarn’s mask, hooking them into the openings at the eyes, at the mouth. Talons grazed Tarn’s lips ever so lightly. “So loyal. So _faithful_. So _dearly devoted_. What kind of fool would have you for a prize, and _cast you away_?”

Tarn’s mouth went dry, because he knew exactly what kind of fool. The one he’d been calling for in his sleep.

“Well,” Deathsaurus said with a smile, “you’re mine now, and I’m not about to let you get away so easily.”

Tarn’s jaw dropped—whether at Deathsaurus’s audacity or the shiver that ran up his spinal strut, he didn’t know. The rogue commander took hold of Tarn’s throat cables in his teeth and bit down just enough to sting. Just enough for Tarn to feel the pressure; just enough to remind Tarn that Deathsaurus was dangerous.

And then his tongue swept over the area, soothing away the pain.

Tarn ought to be telling Deathsaurus that he should not _dare_ set teeth to his Master and Leader, and he _would…_ later. Right now he was far too busy tilting his head back to expose more of his throat in the hopes that Deathsaurus might continue.

But Deathsaurus had something else in mind. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Deathsaurus murmured.

Kiss? That wasn’t possible. Tarn couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he’d last kissed Megatron—a millennia, at least. Most of the time Megatron told him not to bother taking off his mask, and when he did, he’d typically had other uses in mind for Tarn’s mouth. Tarn supposed he couldn’t blame Megatron. He really wasn’t much to look at without his mask on, particularly not with that old damage still scoring the left side of his face. The mask made him into someone worthwhile—the head of the Justice Division—and it was “Tarn,” the DJD’s commander, who was Emperor now. Tarn’s face _was_ the mask.

“We’ve had this discussion,” Tarn said sourly. “The mask does _not_ come off.”

“To hell with the mask,” Deathsaurus breathed, and pressed his lips to the opening of Tarn’s mask.

It wasn’t much of a kiss, as kisses went. Kisses in Tarn’s favourite romance novels always involved the delicate brush of lips, or perhaps the passionate crush of mouths. This kiss was a kiss in name alone, form without substance, or so Tarn thought right up until Deathsaurus’s tongue swept over his upper lip.

He gasped in surprise, not expecting the soft, moist caress up _between_ his mask and his face. And Deathsaurus, warlord and pirate that he was, knew exactly how to exploit even the smallest opening. The next thing Tarn knew, Deathsaurus’s cunning tongue pressed gently against the tip of his own, and stole his breath away.

Tarn wasn’t sure when his arm rose up to clutch Deathsaurus’s shoulders. It was probably before the warlord slid his arm over Tarn’s back and wrapped his wing between their frame and the covers. It was _definitely_ before Tarn found the nerve to slide his _own_ tongue through that narrow opening in his mask and set it to work exploring Deathsaurus’s lips.

It really wasn’t fair. Beast that he was, Deathsaurus’s tongue was disproportionately long, which probably explained a lot about how he was able to do _what_ he’d done to Tarn’s valve and spike in the past. Still, Tarn had to admit it was nice to feel Deathsaurus’s soft lips with his tongue, and to slip inside his mouth, even if he _did_ have to be mindful of Deathsaurus’s fangs. And even if his range was limited.

Eventually, regretfully, he pulled his tongue back into his own mouth. Much to Tarn’s surprise, Deathsaurus didn’t interpret retreat as a signal to stop. Or maybe Deathsaurus had a different definition of _surrender_. The next thing Tarn knew, his tongue was thoroughly tangled up with Deathsaurus’s, inside his own mouth. He could feel Deathsaurus’s sharp talons biting into the tank tracks on his shoulders while the heat from their frames wrapped him up in a living warmth under the shelter of Deathsaurus’s wings.

Tarn had never much cared for those romances about barbarian warlords and the hapless Iaconian envoys or Tagon explorers who inevitably ended up the objects of their affections. He’d always favoured rags-to-riches tales of ordinary police officers and, yes, miners who caught the optic of wealthy and powerful heroes (not _royalty_ or anything so decadent and un-Decepticon as that; he preferred heroes who were self-made mechanisms). Tarn suspected he’d be purchasing some new reading material shortly. He was beginning to develop quite an interest in some of those less…civilized heroes.

If only to give him a better idea how to handle _his own_.

Their kiss, already hot and wet and deep, changed somehow. Tarn swore he could taste something new, something familiar, something beyond the mingled moisture of their mouths. Deathsaurus drew his head back and Tarn realized, to his shock, that the rogue commander’s lower lip was covered in energon. Coolant pooled in the corners of his mouth. That had to be what he’d tasted, but where was it coming from? Deathsaurus licked his lips and Tarn could see streaks of fluid on his tongue. 

Then Tarn saw a cut open in the side of the tongue itself, and he realized what had happened. Deathsaurus had cut his tongue on the opening in Tarn’s mask. The brutal mask edges had sawed into living metal when they kissed. 

And Deathsaurus, apparently, had just kept the kiss going until he’d managed to do himself some notable damage.

“Are you all right?” Tarn asked, feeling guilty. If _only_ he could just take the damned mask off, this wouldn’t have happened.

“I’ll heal.” Deathsaurus smiled, completely unrepentant. “It was worth it.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are _completely insane_?” Tarn demanded, though he could find no force to put behind his words.

“Quite a few people, actually,” Deathsaurus said with a shrug. But then the smile faded from his face as he slid his hands over the cheeks of Tarn’s mask. Tarn could feel him hook his talons under the ridge of the mask, pressing as close as he dared without opening the clasps. “Has anyone ever told _you_ how magnificent you are?”

Tarn could hear his breath rasping in and out of the opening in his mask while his mind struggled for an answer.

 _Terrifying,_ yes. _Lethally gifted_ had been Megatron’s favourite description. But _magnificent_? Him, with his reconstructed frame and hidden face and bloody hands? 

Deathsaurus had to be lying. But for the life of him, Tarn couldn’t figure out what the rogue commander thought he could gain from his flattery. Meanwhile, the word _magnificent_ continued to run in circles through his thoughts.

Deathsaurus’s lips curled into that familiar self-satisfied grin. “Well. It seems I’ve shocked that infamous voice into silence.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Tarn muttered, even as he ran his fingers over the sides of Deathsaurus’s helm.

Deathsaurus laughed. But his expression was entirely serious as he folded his wing over Tarn’s frame. “I do hope you don’t regret this in the morning.”

“Regret what?” Tarn dared to ask.

“Allowing me some control. I won’t abuse your trust.” Deathsaurus pressed a kiss to Tarn’s throat. “You know we’re in this together,” he murmured.

_In this together._

Tarn stared at the ceiling, long after the mech snuggled next to him had drifted off into recharge. His DJD—himself and Kaon and his people—they’d been in it together, just their tiny little unit. He’d thought he’d be leader of the Empire alone, the way Megatron had been. It now occurred to him now that there might be another way. One that didn’t require keeping Deathsaurus firmly in his place as a subordinate.

The possibility that he and Deathsaurus were a _partnership_ rather than simply an alliance opened up an entirely new future. Tarn thought of it with a measure of trepidation, but a tremor of excitement. If he could do this much on his own…what could they do, _together?_

He would have to give this matter some serious thought. Right now, though, the best thing for him to do would be for him to cuddle up under that big blue wing and get some recharge. He’d think much more clearly in the morning.

Tarn spoke in his sleep, as he always did. But this time, the name he spoke wasn’t Megatron’s.


End file.
